


The Many-Coloured God

by awed_frog



Category: Ancient History RPF, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Supernatural
Genre: (nothing graphic but stay safe), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient History, Angst and Feels, Caesar is Caesar, Castiel is Not Oblivious, Celt!Dean, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Classical References, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Dubious Use of My Classics Degree, Epilepsy, Everybody Suffers, Everyone Is Gay, First Kiss, First Time, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Magical Realism, Mutual Pining, Oh and Also, Past Abuse, Pining, References to Canon, Reincarnation, Roman!Cas, Romance, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Soulmates, Team Free Will, The Author Probably doesn't Know, Usual Winchester Misery, What She's Getting Herself Into, bad memories, because History, nobody talks about it, send help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 19:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13371657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: The year is 54 BC. A civil war is looming, and young tribune G. Cassius Longinus will soon need to pick a side. For the moment, though, Rome’s political games are not of his immediate concern: two Celtic brothers with mysterious powers have crashed into his life - and the instant, undeniable, unwillingattractionbetween Cassius himself and green-eyed, ferocious Dàn will lead them all down a dangerous path.





	The Many-Coloured God

**Author's Note:**

> So - as a kind of background, a few months ago I was working on a documentary about the Celtic world. I’m a translator, and I mostly love my job, but this assignment felt really _personal_ , because in a previous life I studied Classics, so those people - it was like I _knew_ them. And then, as I was revising a tricky bit, a story whooshed into my brain, fully-formed and heartbreaking and relentless, and I pushed back against it, because I was lungs-deep inside a different fic and I couldn’t and I wouldn’t and I _really_ tried, and in my defence, my resistance lasted for months and months, during which I most definitely did _not_ daydream about golden torques and black-blue tattoos as I was waiting for buses and trains to take me to adult places. Not a _chance_.
> 
> Anyway, so - here it is. I don’t know how long it’s going to be yet, or how frequently I’ll update; what I do know is how this will end, and also that writing it down will shatter me from the inside out. Let’s hope it’s worth it.

FATUM - ‘that which is said; that which is ordained; destiny’

 

The letter had come in the morning, and its content had made tribune Gaius Cassius Longinus swear so colourfully and profusely that even his unwanted guest, not a stranger to curses and blasphemy himself, had reddened slightly.

“Surely nothing can be that bad,” the man had said, his hand freezing mid gesture.

“Pompey is getting married,” Cassius had replied, curtly; and even now, as he slides off his horse and strides towards the ruined farmhouse, he can think of little else.

It is yet another grey, miserable day, full of bad news and bad dreams and those same persistent, fat clouds pressing down against the top of his head and taking his breath away, and Cassius is tired of everything - of being in charge, of this constant need to explain important matters to people who’re not listening, of Gallia itself.

“Everyone gets married at some point.” Cassius had turned around, a sharp rebuke already on his lips, just in time to catch the man, the extravagantly rich merchant Gabriel of Massalia, helping himself to Cassius’ wine.

Which he’d previously been offered, by the way, but had felt the need to refuse for his own inscrutable reasons. And while the barbarian tribes currently surrounding them may think it’s perfectly well-mannered, downright _normal_ , to share the same cup, Cassius is not exactly in the habit of doing so, and certainly not with Gabriel’s kind. 

“It has too much water for your taste,” he’d finally said, after a very tense few seconds; and Gabriel had laughed.

“I may yet get used to it,” he’d commented, in his usual brazen way, and Cassius had sighed. “Here, drink with me to Pompey’s good fortune.”

“I will _not_.”

“That is _most_ discourteous of you. I hear young Cornelia is not only a beauty, but a most accomplished woman.”

“Yes, thank you - I’m aware of that. In fact, I know her well. Her husband and I - we were close,” Cassius had replied, despite himself, and he’d felt it at once - how that most recent wound was opening again - burning and eating away at his flesh - 

(The memory of a last evening spent arguing over some point of philosophy and gazing up at the distant, unfriendly stars; of Publius turning to look at him, the light of the lamp catching his silver rings as he waved his hand expansively, his vowels slurred by the strong Falernian wine: “Let go of your worries, Gaius. I’ll buy you a house when I come back.”

“I already have a house.”

“A horse, then. It’s time you got better at riding one.”

“Publius -”

“This one is going to make us all rich, you’ll see.”)

“Oh. Condolences.”

Cassius had turned away again, pretended not to notice the subtle way in which Gabriel was assessing and committing to memory the value of the objects around him - of the books, of the maps, and of Cassius himself (his feelings, his political and personal opinion, his general personhood). That was simply who the man was, and Cassius knew enough not to take it personally. He liked Gabriel, even if at times it was quite hard to remember why.

“Cornelia is _much_ younger than her husband,” Gabriel had offered next. “It is quite likely that once your affairs in the Province are over -”

His meaning had been quite clear, and yet Cassius’ mind had been so far from that particular line of thought - of what someone like Gabriel, or, indeed, any man, would make of Cornelia’s straight nose, her charming laugh, her witty remarks over Afranius’s latest play - that it’d been quite some time before he’d guessed at Gabriel’s suggestion.

“I’m not - I _don’t_ -” he’d said, and that, of course, had been a mistake: his almost horrified confusion had immediately caused a shrewd, calculating look to cross Gabriel’s face.

But maybe, Cassius tells himself now, as he looks up at the partially burned down building, maybe Gabriel would interpret Cassius’ response as the quite natural grief of a soldier still loyal to a fallen friend. Or possibly, the equally normal worry any young man would feel at the notion of being trapped into married life. 

Not that Cassius is a young man, exactly. 

Not anymore.

No, at the age of twenty-seven, the only things that are keeping him from some politically motivated alliance are a lengthy military campaign, a distant father and a distracted mother; all facts he should be more grateful for than he actually is.

“How many bodies?” he asks the legionnaire coming out of the house to meet him.

“None,” the man says. “It’s likely they had time to flee.”

Cassius holds out the reins of his horse to his subordinate, looks at up at the unforgiving sky.

This is such a bad moment for a wandering horde of Alamanni to terrorize local farmers. 

Because the truth is, Cassius has been restless and resentful of the persistent rain for several days now - bored with his administrative duties, annoyed at his missed chance to see Britannia with Caesar, and grieving for Publius’ violent death in a desert he can scarcely imagine - and now this news about Pompey -

“Why do you _care_ so much?” Gabriel had asked, exasperated, and Cassius had stared at him in disbelief.

“Pompey is marrying Cornelia _Metella_ ,” he’d explained, slowly, as if to a child. “The daughter of one of Caesar’s fiercest opponents.”

Gabriel had blinked at him.

“Pompey’s wife - the one who died in childbirth two years ago - that was Caesar’s _daughter_. Even _you_ should know that,” Cassius had added, just as Gabriel said, “I _know_ that.”

They’d stared at each other for a moment.

“What else needs said, then? Pompey refused a wedding to Caesar’s niece so he could marry Cornelia instead.”

“Cornelia is a lovely woman.”

“Immaterial. This means war.”

“You always were the pessimistic type.”

“I hope your ships are insured, and well away from Rome’s troubles,” Cassius had replied, finally tearing his own cup from Gabriel’s unresisting hands and draining it.

“Have you found them?” he asks now, pushing his wet hair from his eyes.

“We’re looking,” his man says, with little interest. “But they’ll come back. That’s what generally happens.”

Cassius knows the family who lives here. It’s a rather small household whose members have proved friendly, if not particularly helpful. Their main riches are the apple trees now staring at him from the other side of the house, as miserable and soaked as everyone else, and the Alamanni are generally not interested in burning fields and orchards down. Not enough time for that, especially in this weather. No, their goal is not to start a war with the Romans controlling the territory - or, at least, trying to, Cassius thinks darkly - but rather to steal whatever they can find and then move on.

The house was not luxurious to start with, but now it makes for a truly pitiful sight. The rain has stopped the fire from spreading, and thank the gods for that, but the large room Cassius steps into is still ruined - furniture overturned and broken, walls black with smoke, beams charred. Still, he walks inside, looks around. There is a broken clay bird at his feet, probably a toy belonging to one of the clumsy blond children Cassius has sometimes seen playing in the yard, and something about it suddenly overcomes him with sadness.

Everything is coming to an end, or so it seems.

Because if war will truly come, then Cassius will have to choose a side.

He doesn’t have the luxury to be like Gabriel - to retreat in a richly painted house in Massalia and wait it out and write bad poetry on the naked back of some long-haired slave.

(“You should try it, my over-serious friend. It would do wonder for your constipation problem.”

“I don’t have a -”

“I was speaking _metaphorically_ , Gaius.”)

No, he - well, he knows his father will probably support Pompey, but Cassius simply sees nothing in him. And, even worse, he _likes_ Caesar. He’s worked under Caesar long enough to be sure. There’s _something_ about the man - his focus, perhaps, and his cleverness; or maybe his penetrating stare, and the way he can devote his complete attention to someone, no matter how unworthy of his time - that draws Cassius in. Something that _keeps_ him there, like it does thousands of other men - who, to be sure, are well paid and compensated for their skills, but also insanely proud of their daring and inflexible commander.

Cassius looks at the room again. The Alamanni took their time with it. They were probably hoping to find women here, and this is the price of their disappointment. There is only one piece of furniture that escaped unscathed - an unremarkable wooden stool, much simpler than any of the things in Cassius’ office.

Cassius’ eyes move over it, and then come back.

Why is the thing still in its appointed place, when everything else has been ransacked and broken and moved?

“My tribune? Movement has been reported about ten miles from here. Twenty Germanic mercenaries. Possibly our culprits.”

“I’m coming,” Cassius says, distractedly.

He takes a few steps towards the door, then stops.

This is stupid.

There are a dozen logical explanation as to why that stool should be in that exact position.

A memory of that night sky full of stars floods his head, fades.

_So what?_ asks Gabriel, flashing his pointed teeth.

“Sir?”

“Move on,” Cassius hears himself say. “I’ll be along presently.”

And next he’s walking back to the stool, crouching down next to it. And there, on its legs, almost invisible - there are scratches Cassius recognizes from his training in Athens.

His heart stops inside his chest, his breath catches.

Theophrastus hadn’t known the incantations. _I’m a scholar_ , he used to say, _not a magician. I merely study the culture and traditions of the people living in distant lands, those many like to consider uncouth barbarians, and I’ll hardly claim -_

Cassius had dutifully copied the sacred symbols of these _Keltoi_ Theophrastus liked to talk about - he’d learned the names of their gods, a few words of their language - but he’d never believed their spells would actually _work_. 

They were - they were so _unsophisticated_.

Because magic was real, of course; some of it, at the very least. But Cassius preferred to place his faith in the shadowy temples of Capitol Hill, and the traveling diviners from Egypt. And as for the rest of them - they were frauds. He’d met a woman once who’d told him he was going to die twice - how _ridiculous_ was that?

_She probably means the army life will change you_ , Publius had said, in a rare and unwelcome moment of clarity; and Cassius had shaken his head at him.

But this - Cassius recognizes these lines as a spell of concealment, and on instinct, he reaches out, scratches along them with a fingernail; and as soon as the design is broken, an object appears under the stool - something so solid and real that Cassius curses out loud, stumbles back.

He’s alone in the house now. All he can hear is the insistent tapping of the rain on the roof, and the annoyed huffs of his horse, still tethered outside.

This is probably the grandest, most momentous event in Cassius’ life, and nobody is here to witness it. 

Cassius almost thinks of calling for Gabriel, then remembers Gabriel has left already, back to Massalia, shortly after lunch. He thinks of Caesar next, foolishly; of how fascinated his commander would be with such a clear sign of the gods’ presence in the world. And it’s the thought of what Caesar would say that makes Cassius regain his confidence and kneel down again so he can reach the box. As he first feels it under his fingers, that part of his heart that still speaks in Eurymedes’ voice tells him he must be mistaken - that the box must have been there all along - because it’s simply too heavy and too _real_ to have appeared out of empty space. Cassius must not have noticed it, that is all.

But he knows what he’s seen.

He _knows_ it.

The thought sends an uneasy feeling down his spine, something very similar to what he’d felt in front of the diviner, and on the eve of his first battle, and when he’d first touched someone else’s skin - something that’s half sheer excitement and half reverential fear.

He opens the box.

There are three scrolls inside, and Cassius’ heart starts beating again, almost in disappointment.

He’d guessed at the content, because the box - as miraculous as its sudden appearance had been, the box is a simple traveling library - a practical object, a bit battered - both Theophrastus and Eurymedes had had several just like this one, square, friendly things with ornate carvings around their edges - and Cassius had _hoped_ -

For what, you fool? A satir’s skull? A phoenix feather?

\- for this extraordinary event to continue - for something to lift him out of his life, however temporarily, and, mostly, out of himself and his thoughts - his grief over Publius’ death, his unwillingness to fight any longer, his increasing worry a civil war was about to break out, a terrible state of chaos none of his loved ones would survive - and instead -

Instead it’s over.

These are _books_.

As unusual a find as it is, especially in the house of an unlearned Gaulish farmer, these are simply _books_.

Bewildered and more than slightly annoyed, he opens one, and finds it’s a Hellenic treaty of medicine. He reads the first lines, with easy practice, lifting the papyrus up to catch the last sunlight of the day, and the unfamiliar, ruined room is suddenly full of those beloved sounds he’s courted and used since childhood.

“...most carefully,” he reads, still trying to understand what the subject matter is; and that’s why he doesn’t see the man, at first - a tall figure who seems to materialize like the box did - someone wielding a broadsword pointed right at Cassius’ chest, and -

_You're slow, boy. Too slow. Again._

_Don't look like that. We'll see each other again._

_Dying twice - that sounds uncomfortable, why would anyone -_

His men are long gone by now, but Cassius is more irritated than anything else - at his own foolishness, at this man interrupting the one interesting thing that's ever - the one _thing_ \- at this man thinking he can threaten a Roman officer and get away with it, and he won't, Cassius will bring him back in _chains_ if he has to, and that's the feeling swelling up inside him as he shifts slightly so his scabbard will be readily accessible, as he gives himself permission to truly focus on the danger, to assess and make plans - outrage and annoyance and plain -

_He’s not a German_ , Cassius thinks, opening his hands wide to show he’s not holding his gladius (the scroll, which he still has in his right hand, uncurls rapidly, and the lower part reaches the ground with a dull, almost reproachful sound). No, he’s wearing Gaulish clothes, and there are the edges of a spiraling dark blue tattoo appearing and disappearing under his short tunic as he moves, right over his collarbones, and his face - his _face_ -

As Cassius finally looks up and sees the stranger for the first time, it’s like a fist closes around his heart, because this - this is not a stranger at all. 

Which makes no sense, because Cassius has never seen this man before today, and yet -

“Who _are_ you?” the man asks, in a polished, unaccented Latin, and Cassius hears it plainly - a reflection of his own surprise.

“Gaius Cassius Longinus,” he replies, unthinkingly, and the man lowers his sword a fraction.

“That’s not - what I asked,” he says, almost awkwardly.

He licks his lips, and Cassius finds himself unable to look away from the slight movement.

Why does he feel like he _knows_ this man? Why does he -

He’s about to try and put the feeling into words when he sees the stranger’s gaze move upwards and turn harder - and before he can react, someone hits his head, hard, and everything goes dark.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so - what did you guys think? Should I keep writing this?
> 
> Oh, and also -
> 
> 1) Yes, I'm still writing S13 AU [_Blues Run the Game_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11172456/chapters/24940395), and I'm hoping to update soon.
> 
> 2) Some of the people in this fic are going to be real historical figures, so don't Google them if you'd rather avoid spoilers.
> 
> 3) The Celts were a mysterious bunch, and I don’t know how much time I’ll have to do proper research. I’m reading stuff about them and I'm planning to borrow some turns of phrase from Latin texts and the surviving Celtic languages, like Irish and Scottish, but I won’t claim perfect adherence to history here. We’re just having fun, right? 
> 
> 4) Finally, I’ll stick to British English for this one - hopefully it’ll sound more old-fashioned to my US readers and it’s what comes naturally to me, anyway, so yay for making one thing easy.
> 
> 5) If you have questions or want to chat about anything, come and find me on [my tumblr](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/). I'm probably going to post some fic-related pictures as well (try the tag 'my writing' or 'tmcg').
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! ❤


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